Indeed, Tybalt knows of just such a place among the many farms and plantations surrounding Port d'Elhour, and rope will be easy to come by in the bustling port city.
"We are going to need a lot of rope," observes Res as the others make the preparations. "I'll go with Angalia and Volidrian to meet the toymaker once everybody is secure. Be brave tonight, you will all be fine in the morning."
Nathaniel would like to buy some rope in town - a length for each character to be restrained. Also some more manacles if these can be easily procured without arousing too much suspicion.
Leandro looks very downcast with all these preparations for wererattitude, but complies with what the others think best (glumly).
Andrzej looks down at the manacles and gives a thin smile to Volidrian, barely even touches his eyes, "they look good. Put them over that hook and tie my ankles as well."
The magus leaves his weapons and spellbook away and takes off his boots to make sure that they don't tear in the night.
As the sun begins to set, thick clouds roll in from the northwest, a roiling mass illuminated by distant flashes of lightning. The humidity in the air is tangible and oppressive. The work ahead of you is somber, for the foe you fear may be within your very comrades.
The old barn looks like it has been abandoned for a number of years. Abandoned, but not entirely deserted, you note as a skittish field mouse scurries out of sight into a darkened corner. Rusted iron loops are affixed to the walls for leashing livestock. You note that they appear sturdy, despite years of neglect.
You have procured manacles and rope for the grim business ahead. Outside, rain begins to fall.
"Stay strong my friends," Nathaniel murmurs - it's not entirely clear whether he speaks to the soon to be bound, the watchers or both - as he lays out ropes and manacles.
"Who wants to go first?" he asks, not quite meeting anyone's eyes as he holds out a pair of manacles.
Leandro studies the manacles, avoiding Nathaniel's eyes.
"Will these, er... work if we are changed? Would they hold little rat arms, or would they slip right off?"
Tybalt chuckles in a resigned way, he wraps some bandages around his wrists; "Just to avoid chafing." he adds with a wry tone, as if that's the most of his concerns. There's a dark shadow deep in his eyes as he looks at Leandro.
"I think those rat claws were decently sized, if I remember." He glances at his fore-arm where he was clawed.
"There is rope as well as the manacles," says Nathaniel. "We'll use both. Manacles to wrists behind the back, rope to ankles, rope around torso and arms, and attached to those hooks. That should do it."
Andrzej nods in agreement. "That's good. We want them to be enough to restrain us in any form."
Andrzej and Eliva both acquiesce to being bound.
"You may bind me first," Leandro says, bending to unbuckle a greave strap, "I will not have my arms or armor disgraced by their bearer become a were-creature. Leave them in the corner until we know our fates." As he disarms and removes his armor, he stacks them neatly in one spot, away from the iron rings that the afflicted will be bound to.
To dispel the silence and hearten his fellows during the binding, he declaims a classic tale of misfortune and fortitude, of suffering and redemption, and of ultimate triumph in the trained and stylized manner for Taldan orators.
"I'm good with knots," Nathaniel says to the others, moving towards Leandro with manacles and rope in hand.
Res watches as Nathaniel secures each of their friends. "Nathaniel, you seem to have the situation well in hand here. Angalia, Volidrian and I will go meet with the dollmaker." Res pauses, and then walks back to Leandro and clasps his shoulder.
"I wish I could be at your side during this difficult time. But, duty calls and must be obeyed. Be strong friend, we will see each other again in the morning. Our story is not yet finished." Turning to Andrezj and Tybalt, Res says, "Do not despair. You have both proven your valor. You will be strong and you can resist this taint in your blood. Remember, Gorum, the Lord of Iron, will aid those who fight!"
Res turns and heads out the door and back to town with Angalia and Volidrian.
Nathaniel sets to binding and shackling his bitten comrades. Anuqa assists with gentle efficiency. The old sorcerer clearly does not relish the task ahead, but is willing to do what must be done.
Drops of rain patter on the roof of the delapidated barn. More than a few find their way to the sagging floorboards. Through an open window, the last light of dusk straining through the storm clouds casts an anemic glow over the proceedings.
Binding Leandro, Tybalt, Andrzej, and Eliva brings no satisfaction. The job is done, and that is all there is to it.
Res and Volidrian set out. Angalia looks with sadness upon her companions and throws her arms around Nathaniel without a word. She looks to the others and says, "We will be back soon. I am sure there is nothing to worry about and we will all feel silly about this in the morning." A faint tremble in her voice conveys that she is unconvinced of her own words. She turns to follow Res and Volidrian, raising the hood of her cloak against the rain despite the sticky warmth of this festering domain.
"And you be careful in your meeting. I do not think the toymaker is a threat, but he was wary of something. As always in this land, 'ware evil, friends," Leandro recommends to the departing trio.
"And you, brave guardians, do whatever you must should we turn. We will not be ourselves. Maybe we would be better off dead," he admonishes the guardians who remain.
After leaving the abandoned building Volidrian brings attention back to their mission.
"So how do we want to deal with this toy maker? I for one do not trust to our safety during this supposed meeting, yet we must get the information we need. Thus the requisite to balance security and diplomacy. I have no way with words but I can skulk around and maybe detect an ambush before it springs."
"We are suppose to meet with the Toymaker at Marcel's coffee house after sunset. He will recognize me from our earlier meeting however, Angalia was off tending to Tess and you were investigating the back of the shop so he will not know the two of you. I suggest that you and Angalia enter a few minutes before me, place an order, and take a seat. I will enter and meet with the toymaker. If it looks like he wants to go somewhere else, and I sense his intentions are honorable, I will nod to you to come and introduce yourself, otherwise, just follow behind in case it is a trap. Does that sound like a good plan Angalia and Volidrian?" asks Res.
Nathaniel returns Angalia’s hug, whatever he wanted to stay stuck in his throat as he reluctantly lets her go. “Be careful. Be safe,” he murmurs as the three depart. There is a knot in his stomach, but whether worry for the companions who are departing, the ones who remain here or for the part he plays tonight he cannot tell.
Once the other three are gone, he returns to checking knots and manacles. “If we’re going about this right, you won’t escape these bonds,” he mutters in reply to Leandro. “If it looks like anyone’s getting close to escaping I … I’ll try to knock you out or something.” He sighs heavily. “I suppose we need to discuss it. What do we know of these … creatures … you may become? What strengths and weaknesses might you possess?” He turns to Anuqa. “Do you know much of this affliction? If our friends turn, will they all turn at the same time? If some do and others do not, would it be smart to release those who have not? And what of you – do you have any magic that might stop them without harm should they escape their bonds?”
The normally laconic ranger realises that he is beginning to ramble, and lapses into nervous silence.
"That sounds like an excellent idea Sir Res, to be seen yet unrecognized is a wonderful place to hide."
"I'm glad you agree. We should hurry, i don't want to keep the toy maker too long," replies Res. With that, Res begins to head toward town. Once there, he checks with some of the locals about the location of Marcel's coffee house.
The Ramshackle Barn
A distant peal of thunder seems to rattle the old boards of the barn as the storm outside intensifies. Anuqa shakes his head slightly at Nathaniel's question. "Much of my magic harnesses the power of the elements. That is effective against enemies, but not something you want to use a on friend." He looks sadly upon his bound comrades.
"The transformation is likely to make them strong. Savage, even. They will not be themselves. It is a terrible thing. Still, these bonds should hold. We must keep them from harming anyone. If they are free to act out their bestial urges, the curse will take hold much more quickly. If they are denied, there is hope that we can get them to Dr. Savarre and try to free them from the affliction."
"I do not know if they will all turn at the same time. I have never seen a group all face the first transformation at once. We should be careful about freeing any of them. Perhaps if enough time passes we can feel more confident that they have been spared."
He looks to Nathaniel with an expression that conveys his wish to have a better answer.
Journey to Port d'Elhour
The road back to the city is turning to mud under the rain, which intensifies as you get closer to the city. Angalia trudges along with her hood covering her head, her face turned to the ground, consumed with her own thoughts.
The outskirts of the city are missing their usual bustle of activity. Few people are out of doors, and those few scurry about with their faces cast down away from the rain, eager to reach shelter.
Res gets the attention of one of them to ask for directions to the coffee house. The man seems surprised at the interaction, as if he cannot fathom speaking to someone in the street on an evening such as this. Still, he indicates the spot as quickly as he can before hurrying away. You trudge on through the streets, being careful to avoid the brimming drainage gutters that threaten to overflow and spill their filth at every turn.
The view of Marcel's coffee house seems incongruous with the dreary bleakness of the pending storm. A glazed bay window casts a warm glow out onto the street, and the sound of many relaxed conversations can be heard through the wooden door.
"Alright Sir Res we will head in and reconnoiter the establishment"
Volidrian enters the coffee shop eyes darting around, memorizing the interior and making note of possible hazardous persons. He makes his way over to the counter "A coffee for my friend and I" slightly mispronouncing the word coffee as this is his first time using the word. He assumes it is some form of beer.
Once everyone is secured to the best of Nathaniel's ability he waits moodily, out of reach of his secured companions. Occasionally he checks on their equipment and weapons, making sure that it is all stashed out of easy reach around the barn. If anyone talks he responds, but there seems to be little he can say to lighten the mood.
Leandro settles down within his bindings to the most restful position possible and closes his eyes, murmuring prayers to his goddess beneath his breath. Despite divesting himself of weapons and armor, he still clasps his holy symbol tight in one hand.
The Ramshackle Barn
The rain comes stronger, dripping through the boards of the dilapidated roof, and the claps of thunder grow louder. Outside, the last hazy glow of the setting sun behind the storm clouds has faded to darkness. The only illumination outside now are the violent flashes of lightning that periodically rend the sky. Anuqa quietly turns up the oil of a lantern, casting a muted glow over he proceedings.
The mood in the barn is somber, the waiting interminable. As the thunder peals outside, Tybalt and Andrzej begin to stir restlessly. It is clear that they are in pain, as they begin spasming violently. Anuqa's eyes widen in alarm. "It is happening," he says ominously.
Journey to Port d'Elhour
The interior of Marcel's coffee house is cozy, especially with the storm beginning to rage outside. Small tables are scattered about the place, and a small fire crackles in the hearth. It is warm, but somehow he tiny fire is a welcome sight. A weathered counter occupies one wall of the place, where a thin old man observes the patrons with an inscrutable expression. Patrons sip their cups and smoke pipes, conversing about the weather, trade, gossip - it is as if the setting and the beverage brings out the philosopher in everyone.
The wiry little man at the counter nods and turns away. He pours a thick black concoction into three small pewter mugs and presents them to Volidrian, Res, and Angalia. The taste of the brew is impossibly bitter, especially if you have no idea what to expect. You observe the other patrons stirring various herbs and additives into their cups. Perhaps that is how they can stomach the taste.
You do not see Monsieur de Monte in the shop. Angalia nods to a small corner table and leads you to take a seat.
Nathaniel stands, tense, his knuckles white as he grasps the hilts of his sheathed weapons, watching Andrzej and Tybalt.
Res let's Angalia and Volidrian go to a table in the corner. He makes his way to an empty table in the center so that he is easy to spot by Monsieur de Monte. He sits with facing the door so that he can observe each customer as they enter.
He takes a sip of the coffee and winces. "Arg, nothing like the coffee brewed at Lastwall, praise be Gorum" he muses to himself.
The night was long and dark, as Tybalt and Andrzej struggled against their bonds in the throes of their transformation into wererats. Leandro and Eliva, also bound, seemed to have been spared, but together with Nathaniel and Anuqa they looked on in horror at the vile transformations.
It seemed endless - a storm-ravaged night stretching for eternity, but at long last dawn came and the stricken heroes collapsed into fitful rest as they attained their human forms once more.
Meanwhile, Res, Angalia, and Volidrian were disappointed to learn that Monsieur de Monte would never turn up in Marcel's coffee shop. Sometime later, a haggard-looking Magritte – the girl from de Monte’s shop – arrived at the coffee shop, soaking wet and looking as if she had beheld some terror.
”Forgive me, but I was eavesdropping and heard Monsieur de Monte ask to meet you here. I fear you are the only ones who can help,” she said. ”I always thought the shop a little strange, but nothing prepared me for the terror that lies beneath the surface. I went to close up the store, but Monsieur de Monte was nowhere to be found. But I saw blood, and nothing beside it but a doll of the master’s own creation. Forgive me, but I did not know what to do. I feared the worse, although perhaps I am just being foolish. I ran as fast as I could and came here, hoping you would still be here. I will not go back there, not for the world. Something is terribly wrong about that place.”
The teary-eyed shopgirl went on to tell Res that she believes Felicité and Marcel – Monsieur de Monte’s assistants - are still there, but she does not trust them. They do not speak unless spoken to, and do not seem to have lives of their own beyond working for Monsieur de Monte.
In time, Magritte went home to rest.
You all returned to the inn for some much needed rest. Tybalt and Andrzej clearly were in need of care. Nathaniel, Angalia, and Eliva agreed to keep watch over their companions, freeing up the rest of the party to attend to other matters over the next two-and-a-half days before the White Lady is to set sail for Mordentshire.
The storm-drenched night has passed into another sultry day in Port d’Elhour. The humidity seems to cling to everything with an unpleasant dampness, and the air feels close and stale.
Those who endured the night with the stricken lycanthropes take some much-needed rest in the morning, and the party regroups in the afternoon. The common room of the Marshflower Inn is open to the outdoor sun, but somehow still seems cloaked in shadow, the heavy draperies contributing to the dreary air of the discreet little inn.
The innkeeper addresses Res. ”A man has been asking after you lot,” he says, indicating a man sitting alone.
The group sees a man in expensive, yet well-worn, traveling clothes. A traveling satchel sits next to his knee. He has a saturnine cast to his features, dark hair, olive skin, and a precise goatee. His hands are encased in kid gloves. Although his foul-weather coat is pulled close, there is a suggestion of armor beneath.
Leandro catches Res's eye and rises from his chair with a nod, letting the grizzled warrior rest a moment more.
He strides firmly towards the seated man, giving a slight bow as he reaches the table. "Greetings, good sir. I am Leandro of Taldor. Yon doughty hotelier believes you seek my friends and myself. If true, you have found us. If not, I will thrash him for a lying cur." He smiles very slightly, gravely assessing the newcomer. There is caution and suspicion in his manner, but not hostility.
Leandro is a tall, well-set-up young man in the prime of young manhood. He is neatly and almost fussily dressed in black boots, shirt, and plain dark trews. His deep grey cloak is held closed by a pewter clasp in the form of a rose, which same device adorns the pommel of a longsword peeping from under the cloak. His hair is long, black, and shining, being unbound in this brief moment of relaxation.
An enamelled pendant depicting a white bird with a rainbow-shaded tail hangs from a chain around his neck.
The thin dark man stands and gives the newcomer a stiff, precise bow.
“Greetings Sir Leandro. I am Dr. Ezrakion Tovanarish. I am an associate of Dr. Jean-Eric Savarre of Richemulot. He alerted me of a party he is associated with that would be at this place. I assume that this is you?”
Leandro gets a feeling of a scholar in the stranger’s demeanor. He also seems ill at ease, and is careful to keep a fair distance between himself and Leandro. He looks Leandro over, and he gets the feeling the man is measuring him in some clinical fashion. His stare is rather unsettling
"Dr. Tovanarish. We are indeed who you seek. Would you care to join us to convey your message?"
The paladin gestures courteously at an empty chair at the group's table.
Tybalt is hunched over the table, one hand to his forehead and the other around a leather jack. His hair a trifle unkempt in a wild romantic poet way, as he looks hauntedly into his drink.
At the arrival of the newcomer he perks up, finding the distraction welcome after the long dark night before.
Res finally stirs, his mind racing with all that has happened and the transformation of Tybalt and Andrezj. So deep in thought, he does not hear the innkeeper's query.
Res, stands up and surveys the man speaking with Leandro. He watches Leandro talk to the man, and gesture toward the table. Picking up the cue, he pulls out the empty chair, and gestures to man to join them.
The newcomer greets the party
“Greetings. My name is Dr Ezrakion Tovanarish. A mutual acquaintance has sent me to you , Dr. Savarre. He bids you return with me to Mordentshire. There are evil things afoot with the Wamphyri “
Taking a heavy draft of his drink; he looks to the others. "We have been investigating the dollmaker, de Monte, it seems he has more people than one would expect in his workshops. It might be good to explore there or talk to the crafters of his mysterious dolls?"
"Of course, doing this inconspicuously would be good." He adds.
Leandro nods at Tybalt's words, pleased that the bard's rattery - rathood? rattiness? - has not addled his brains.
"Sir Res received a request for help from de Monte's shop girl last night, a rather urgent one. I think we should proceed there with some haste to be sure no evil has befallen de Monte, or his assistants." He scrutinizes the newcomer with frank curiosity. "We should do this before we depart for other climes, methinks. If you would care to join us, it might be quicker. Then we could return to Dr. Savarre with haste. If you think that wise, of course, Sir Res."
The newcomer frowns
“I do not know of this dollmaker, but if it will hasten our departure, then I will lend my assistance.”
The newcomer heads to his table and returns with a backpack, a rather large heavy crossbow, and a walking stick with an onyx-colored stone for a head
Picking up a small piece of the breakfast wurst, Tybalt holds it up to his shoulder and from the hood of his cloak comes a small brown owl that nibbles the tasty meat.
He gets up, stretches and puts on a jaunty smile, "Well I'm never one to refuse a pretty shop-girl."
As a reminder - the interest in de Monte's workshop came about when investigating the series of serial murders.
"Dr. Tovanarish, there is a ship bound for Mordentshire leaving in two days... no, that's not right. Tomorrow, now. My apologies. It has been a long night." The dark shadows under the paladin's eyes testify to the truth of that statement.
"We were planning to take that ship back to Dr. Savarre when it sails... but first, we are trying to track down the murderer of a woman. A murderer who might be a magical doll. It is a long story, but we believe the wondrous creations of a toymaker named de Monte may be... I know not, enchanted perhaps?... to kill people. Adults, anyway. Children simply disappear. We hoped to stop these horrid happenings before we left town."
The tall cadaverous doctor nods
“That sounds like a worthy pursuit. Two days should be sufficient, Dr Savarre should be good up until then. I am at your service “
"We should proceed with some haste, then. Where are the others?" Leandro looks at their sadly diminished party.